


Your smile is stretching but you're gonna go far

by livenudebigfoot



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Awkward Conversations, Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, M/M, Voyeurism, terrible life choices
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-12
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:29:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livenudebigfoot/pseuds/livenudebigfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fusco occasionally takes drastic action on Reese's behalf and Reese isn't sure how to feel about that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your smile is stretching but you're gonna go far

Sometimes, in his off-hours, he follows Fusco around on assignment. It pays off to know everything he can about his assets and besides that, it’s strangely relaxing. Fusco’s just so easy to follow. He’s loud and his walk is distinct and Reese can pick him out of a crowd every time. Pursuing him becomes a lazy game of I-Spy, hunting him out in the streets at a distance, letting him slip away and reeling him back in.

It’s easier than usual today because Fusco’s one of a group of about seven men, doing what looks like a collection, going around to all the people who owe HR money and intimidating it out of them. Well, the bigger, more dangerous guys Fusco’s with do the intimidation. Fusco seems to be in charge of the soft sell, the gentle approach.

Which means Fusco’s not doing much.

But that’s fine; Reese knows Fusco well enough to know that he’d rather not participate in the brutality. He’s happy enough just being one of the guys. He talks and laughs with his friends in HR and as they walk, one of them casually clamps a broad hand on the back of his neck and Fusco doesn’t flinch, seems to flourish under the touch.

Reese thinks about the way Fusco is sullen with him, the way he cringes at every movement. He can’t quite get it off his mind, no matter how hard he tries.

They hit the bar after and Reese, who would ordinarily be tired of following by now, who ordinarily would be on his way home, follows them in. He watches, agonized, as they drink together. There’s ease and warmth here, friendliness. They’re all terrible, but in this place they don’t seem to know it. It reminds Reese of him and Cara and Mark, holed up in some cheap motel room waiting for the call, passing cheap whiskey around and around until they thought they might go blind. In a way, he misses that. The camaraderie, the knowledge that he was going to hell in very good company.

He watches as Fusco submits happily to shoving and elbowing, gives his own back. Reese wonders if he feels the same when he’s deep in HR, if he feels the brotherhood in damnation. Fusco drinks too much, beer after beer before one of them suggests hard liquor.

“Hey, Lionel,” one of them says as he gently pries Fusco’s fingers off a shot glass. Reese is surprised at the anger that rises in him when he sees one of them touching him, using his first name. “Lionel,” the cop repeats, like he knows how much it angers Reese, like he wants to get killed. “You still do like you did at the academy?”

“You mean, do I still think HR stands for ‘human resources’?” Fusco gets the giggles after that, and his friend has to wait for him to calm down a moment before speaking again.

“No, man. I know you know what HR means.”

Fusco smiles to himself, sloppy and secret.

The guy leans in close, speaks too softly for Reese to hear him. Reese taps at his phone, turns on the microphone in Fusco’s cell as Fusco’s eyebrows start to rise.

“Not so much,” Fusco’s saying when the mic turns on. “Not for a long time.” He still sounds sleepy, unconcerned.

“Well, how about it?” the cop asks.

“What, here?”

“No, not right here,” he says. “The bathroom. Or outside. Just quick.”

“Outside,” Fusco says, firmly. “Just you, or…?” His gesture circles the group.

The cop who asked half grins. “Atta boy. Come on.” He tugs at Fusco’s arm, drags him away from the table. “You guys joining us?”

The expressions are mixed, knowing half-smiles and bemused stares. The half-smilers get up after a moment, and the bemused starers follow out of curiosity. Reese taps his foot as the last of the bemused ones drift out, waits a torturous forty seconds to give them some distance and then follows at a smooth, steady pace, fingers shaking. He wishes he’d heard what Fusco just agreed to.

He knows what it sounds like, but it can’t be that.

There’s a tight, dank alley right by the bar, and Reese risks a peek inside. When his eyes focus and he begins to make out shapes in the dark, he sees Lionel on his knees and it _is_ that and rage nearly knocks the wind out of Reese.

_No_ is all he can think as Fusco nuzzles at that cop’s zipper. _No_ as Fusco mouths at his erection through the fabric. _No_ as they open that cop’s pants together, fumbling with belt and button and zip. _No_ as Fusco takes him in his mouth.

_No. That’s mine._

He sees it all in his head, what he wants to do. He wants to hurt them, each and every one of them for even laying a finger on him, for sullying his name with their fucking mouths. He wants to break teeth and shatter bones. He wants them to walk with limps for the rest of their lives. He wants to take Fusco home and let him sober up, wash out his mouth with soap, clean every trace of them away.

He lurches forward, intent on making good, but then Fusco lets out this guttural moan and it _carries_ , freezes Reese in place. It’s such a low, sweet sound, so full of want that he can’t bring himself to move another inch. All he can see is the way Fusco’s fingers dig into the cop’s hips, the way he moves his mouth up and down the length with such devotion, the way the cop’s hand cradles the back of his head, just guiding, not forcing, whispering, “Good boy; good boy” over and over.

No one is making him do this.

Reese falls against the wall of the alley, braces himself and watches from there. He shouldn’t. He should go. He’s going now.

When Fusco calmly takes this man down to the root without gagging, Reese’s cock gives a lazy jump and he realizes that this has gone too far. He can’t watch this. He doesn’t understand this and he doesn’t like it and jealousy is ripping into him, but this is something Fusco wants to do and Reese can’t stop it. The cop bucks forward with a whine, hand tightening on the back of Fusco’s head, and Reese chokes back the agonized noise he nearly makes when Fusco diligently swallows every drop while the cop bucks erratically into his mouth.

The cop lets out this long, contented sigh, ruffles at Fusco’s hair. “You’re a good man, Lionel,” he says pleasantly, as he tucks himself into his pants. He looks around to their forgotten audience of amused, curious, and in some cases, disgusted cops. “Who’s next?” he calls.

One of them, one of the ones who looks sly and knowing steps forward and he’s done this before; they’ve all done this before; they’ve all fucked Lionel’s mouth and made him swallow and Reese wants to _kill_. This new cop is busily tugging his belt open and Reese clenches one fist, moves forward, only to stop dead again when Fusco stares through the forest of legs and looks directly at him.

Their eyes meet in this long and awful moment and Fusco holds Reese’s gaze, unflinching. Exertion or rage or embarrassment reddens his face. His expression isn’t vulnerable or panicked like Reese thought it would be, it’s just annoyed. “Go away,” he mouths.

Reese feels like somebody hit him. He staggers back a few steps, hand braced against the wall. He can’t go. He can’t leave him here. He forces himself out of the alley and lingers there, indecisive. Fusco’s cell phone mic is still on, and Reese can hear his low hums and groans, and he’s staying, he’s staying right here. Reese positions himself outside the mouth of the alley, gripping white-knuckled at the cell phone.  
  
He just leans and listens in to soft, ecstatic sounds, peppered with brief, monosyllabic exchanges of words, and the voices are always changing and it just keeps _going on_. Fusco’s closer to the mic so he comes through louder, like he’s right here, right by Reese.

So, of course, he starts thinking about Fusco’s mouth on him. It’s unavoidable.

He’d be angry, Reese thinks. Like he always is when he’s doing something Reese asked him for. He’d be scowling. He’d mutter sarcastically and every concession he’d make would be rough and begrudging. He’d threaten to use his teeth.

But maybe he wouldn’t stay angry. Maybe, like with everything else, he’d sink into it and that loyalty, that need would come through and he’d become what Reese wants him to be for the moment, sweet and devoted and begging for approval. His hands would grasp at Reese’s thighs, hold him still and close, and Reese would let him do what he wants and Reese’s hand would only touch his head to stroke his hair and tell him he’s doing well, he’s so good, such a good boy, Lionel.

The insane urge to go back into the alley and get in line overtakes him, but the notion of there being a line in the first place makes him double over with rage, stomach tight and sick.

“Hey,” says one of the cops in a moment of quiet. “Take a look.”

Reese holds back, tries not to look but there is quiet, scattered laughter and he can’t not.

Fusco’s still kneeling, legs apart, another man’s foot pressing lightly against his groin, against the hard-on tenting the front of his pants.

Another cop, the first cop, drops to Fusco’s level and says, “You need some help with that, buddy?”

His hands are clenched on his thighs, face dark with shame, and his eyes keep flickering from the ground to the entrance of the alleyway, but he won’t meet Reese’s eyes. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and shakes his head.

“You sure?” the cop asks, palming Fusco’s cock through his pants. “You sure about that?”

Fusco shakes his head again, but his hips begin to push involuntarily into that cop’s hand, so the cop takes it as a yes and undoes his zipper and Reese is actually snarling. The cop wraps a hand around his cock, jerks it with a kind of rough efficiency that forces a desperate whine from Fusco’s throat and he doesn’t last very long, digging fingers into his own flesh hard enough to bruise and grunting once, hard and suppressed, as he comes. The cop leans close like he might kiss him, but Fusco turns his head to the side, breathing hard, and the cop backs off.

Good.

The little audience starts to disperse, some of them clearly without having been touched, some quietly satisfied, and that cop is helping Fusco to his feet when the other cops approach the mouth of the alley, so Reese turns away and switches back to microphone.

“Need a ride home?” that cop asks Fusco.

Fusco spits. “No, it’s okay. I need to meet somebody up here. I’ll make my own way back.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Yeah, I’m sure. Thanks, man.”

The two of them emerge from the alley, Fusco rubbing at his sore jaw, the cop looking at him with mild concern. They stand facing each other a moment, shake hands, “See you around,” and separate on the spot. The cop goes in one direction and Fusco walks right past Reese, not sparing him a glance. Reese stays put long enough to keep from looking suspicious, long enough to see the cop look back at Fusco once. Then Reese sets off after Fusco, reeling him in again, sifting through the unfamiliar bodies on the street and finding his guy again. Fusco’s moving slow, stumbling a little, and he lets Reese fall in step beside him.

“Can you believe that guy’s got a wife and kids?” Fusco says, sounding disdainful.

Reese hides a mad little smile over that being the first thing he says, no explanations, no shame. “You’ve got a wife and kid too, Lionel,” he points out.

He frowns. “Ex-wife.”

“You two seem close,” Reese says lightly.

Fusco laughs, sharp and bitter. “Yeah, you could say it like that. Giordano. I knew him at the academy. He works Vice now. Word is, he’s part of a movement to get HR organized and running again. Thought it was about time to renew the friendship.”

Reese looks down at him, impressed, hiding his horror. “Lionel, I hate to be the one to tell you this, but there are other ways to reconnect with old friends.” Fusco is wiping compulsively at his mouth. He drifts a little to the side and Reese catches his elbow to steady him. “And you shouldn’t do that while you’re drunk.”

“I’m only as drunk as I needed to be,” he says. He staggers again and Reese takes Fusco’s arm and wraps it around his shoulders. “Anyway, that’s pretty much the whole friendship in a nutshell. You do what you have to do, you know?”

Reese knows. “Don’t do that again,” he says, firmly. “That’s an order.”

“I’ll only do it if I have to.”

“Don’t do it at all.”

Fusco looks at him sidelong, a mean, drunken glint in his eye. “You guilty?” he asks. “Or jealous?”

Reese shouldn’t really dignify that with a response, because it’s foolish and Fusco’s baiting him anyway, but instead he bends to kiss him. His mouth tastes like other people, warm and salty and bitter. When he pulls away, Fusco’s face is very still. Reese keeps walking, towing him along.

“Huh,” Fusco says, finally, sounding very thoughtful.

“Yeah,” Reese responds, not sure what to say.

“So, you driving me home or what?”

Reese looks down at him, smiling a little. “Is that an invitation?”

“Sure, if you want to see it like that. An invitation to drive me home.” Fusco’s expression softens a little. “No offense. I’ve just had enough for one night. And you threaten me a lot, so there is that.”

“There is that,” Reese repeats in begrudging agreement. “Mind if I stay the night?”

Fusco’s eyes narrow. “That a euphemism?”

“Sure. A euphemism for me sleeping on your couch.”

Fusco can’t seem to help but smile at him. “Yeah. Okay. Fine by me.”

Reese fishes in his pocket, pulls out a tin box of mints, pops one into Fusco’s mouth. “For the taste,” he explains.

“Thanks,” Fusco says. “You’re a peach.”


End file.
